The weary musings of a time-served estate agent (realtor) somewhere in the UK. If you want advice on the property market, or alternative careers to this one, let me know, I might reply. In the meantime I'm plagued by cretinous idiots who I work with and for, and who may well feature in my diary at some time.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Let's Do The Timewarp - Wedneday

Stuck in traffic again. If I’m not gridlocked I’m dodging
aggressive traffic wardens, determined to not rest until every town is a
wasteland of boarded up units interspersed by charity shops and coffee outlets.
I have idiot trainee F alongside me so there’s not a lot of intellectual
stimulus and the local radio presenter – only allowed as an auditory intruder
in case he can pre-warn me of any further traffic blockages – is vainly trying
to plug some absurd competition to guess three celebrities from a trio of
nano-second clips. The hook is tens of thousands of ‘life changing’ pounds that
won’t even buy you a studio flat round here. God, I despair of humanity.

‘Who do you reckon they are then?’ Enthuses F, nodding at
the radio. ‘We could ring in.’

‘You might as well try and guess the lottery numbers.’ I
tell F wearily, spotting an opposition for sale board and bristling
uncomfortably - even after all this time.

‘Yes but it’s a huge amount of money.’ Continues F. It’s
not. I point out the cost of housing stock and then remind the fool that to
call in you need to ring some pumped-up price phone number that is in all
probability funding the ‘giveaway’. F looks crestfallen. He has to learn sooner
or later.

Finally we move and I take a rabbit-run short cut through
some 1930s housing stock. The roof tiles have been replaced, on some, with
unsightly concrete interlocking pieces that will be throwing up survey problems
in years to come, as they’ll be too heavy for the existing struts and purlins.

What sort of vintage do you think these are? I say,
nodding towards the spec-development semis, while squinting at the unaccustomed
sun and tugging out my sunglasses.

F frowns. I wait, then bump over several sleeping
policeman. My back winces ahead of F’s pearl of wisdom. He hasn’t a clue.

‘That development.’ I say to F as we pass a mock Tudor
cul-de-sac of identikit executive homes, all with double garages but still not
enough parking for the two teenagers, four car families, now living there.

‘They’re kind of modern’ Ventures F timidly. They were
when I first started in estate agency, I think gloomily. Now the Energy
Performance Certificate assessor will pick holes in the loft insulation levels,
the lack of cavity wall filling, then condemn the wheezing boilers with crappy
energy ratings and no condensers.

‘They’re 1980s.’ I tell F, as I swing back out on to the
main road then use my local knowledge to dodge more road works, darting down a
road containing some rare 1950s bungalows.

‘These.’ I say to F, as we exit past the temporary
traffic lights and I get a rare shiver of pleasure as I spot the van we had
been following still stuck on red, some three hundred yards back. No sign of
any workmen, needless to say.

‘Well these are old.’ Posits F staring at the last
bungalow on a corner plot that might just take a planning application for
in-fill, if it wasn’t for the tricky access back on to the main road.

‘How old?’ I press. ‘Pre or post war?’

F shrugs then asks.

‘Is that the Falklands war?’

‘Here we are.’ I tell F as we turn onto a sprawling
housing development with virtually no architectural merit. The gardens are
open-plan as will be the downstairs accommodation. Crazy paving paths and
matching chimneybreasts are hardly complemented by huge, single-glazed, picture
windows that drip with condensation nine months of the year.

‘These are cool.’ Enthuses F as I take a sideways glance
at the imbecile and almost mount the kerb.

‘The energy assessor might think so, but that’s for a
different reason.’ I carp.

‘1960s like Mad Men, you mean?’ Asks F after I’ve tired
of waiting. I nod and he looks at me hesitantly. Eventually he speaks.

‘Is that, like when you were born?’

I preferred it when he was wrong.

------

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